the youths and maidens of many generations. As the sun descended, wrapped in orange clouds, and the dreamy twilight came, with its soothing influences, I saw in my imagination all the picturesque life of the former time-the gay and brilliant carnival of the Past! They came across the velvet lawn in magnificent dresses, and more magnificent beauty-the maidens of an epoch long forgotten. I saw all their smiles, and heard the fine laughter. They flirted, and ogled, and tossed their pretty heads; the youths flocked around them, and basked in the bright sunshine of their eyes. I saw all the comedy-I understood the plot; the secrets of the fond hearts, one and all, were an open book, wherein I read with ease. Where now, I thought, are these lovely faces, these damsels of another age? It is their ghosts that I see-they flit across the grass, with glimmering smiles-but the days of their lives are dead days; they live alone in the memory of the aged; or the idle imagination of the dreamer. They are gone this many a day, and will never come more. The old "tryst ing tree" only remains. It was there before they were born, it was there when they had passed, it is there, still, to-day. It derived its name from the fact that a young lady of the family in the remote antiquity of the Rackrack annals, had here met by appointment a youthful suitor, full of "heart of hope"-and acted as young damsels have done, sometimes, in all ages. As the twilight fell, the history became a picture to me; nothing was obscure or indistinct. A youth clad in the rich dress of the far colonial day, with gold-laced waistcoat, fairtop boots, and cocked hat ornamented with its floating feather-came and sat down in the shadow of the great oak. The sunset fell in tranquil splendor on his velvet coat with immense hanging sleeves-on his spotless ruffles at wrist and bosom-on his powdered hair, secured with a bow of ribband, and on his cheeks, full of smiles, and reddened by the ingenuous blush of boyhood and first love. The youth tapped his foot, and played with the hilt of his little dress sword, worn then on festival occasions; he waited, but not long. His face suddenly grew radiant; his bosom heaved; from his lips escaped the whispered words: "She is coming!" She came. To-day I see her quite distinctly. She is very beautiful. Her raven hair, resplendent with white pow der, is carried back from dainty temples, rising over violet eyes; the countenance is one of dazzling beauty. The maiden wears a long waisted gown of yellow silk, close fitting, to display a figure of the most exquisite grace and elegance, At the open boddice, held together by blue cords of twisted silk, a great quantity of mossy lace is seen; and the full round shoulders are enveloped in a cloud of some material as slight and transparent as the fabric called by the Roman ladies, as Apuleius informs us, ventum textilem66 woven wind." A wide chip hat, secured by a silken scarf, passed over the crown, and beneath the chin, rests lightly on the powdered hair. From beneath its shadow, the enticing eyes of the young girl look forthcoquettish, careless, saying quite as plainly as if speaking audibly: "How beautiful I am! how you must love me!" She glides along across the soft, smooth turf, her gait the very perfection of the most graceful motion. He hastens to her and takes her hand and kisses it. She chides him-smiles-then sighsthen moves toward the trysting tree, and lets him sit beside her; and does not seem to be aware that he is holding still, one of her small white hands. So begins the interview. A young man full of love, and honour, and true goodness, holding the hand of a maiden dowered with the rarest loveliness, who smiles upon him tenderly, and turns away, with a bashful air when she has done so. This is the picture which I see, as the interview commences. How does it end? Alas! and well-a-day! That look in the young lady's eyes is not love at all, it is merely acting. She amuses herself for an hour-drinks deep of the intoxica ting draught of a boy's first, ardent love; grows weary, finally, of the passionate stimulant, and throws it from her. A look, a word-the spell is broken. The boy kneels at her feet, and pours out his agony of heart in broken words. She bids him rise and not behave himself ridiculously. He obeys abruptly-so very abruptly that a flush of anger comes to the lovely face. "What now, if you please, sir?" says the astonished gaze of the young lady; "pray are you not my slave?" The words he utters answer the silent look with perfect distinctness. "Madam." the boy says, bowing low and ceremoniously, "I beg that you will pardon my impertinence, as you doubtless regard it. I offered you my heart honestly-you throw it from you with scorn; you shall not be annoyed by another such impertinence. I have the honor of bidding you farewell." Was not that a fine speech for the boy to make? Almost too fine, connected and grammatical, I fear, for anything but one of these good old traditions. She starts to her feet; her face flushes. "Come back-do not go !" she says in an agitated voice. "I did not meanArthur-!" But the murmur does not move him. The accent of sudden tenderness is useless. He bows again without speaking— goes and mounts his horse-he is gone. The maiden stamps her foot-tears at the lace upon her arm, and goes rapidly back to the hall and her chamber, hiding her face as a servant passes her. She is crying. Such is the legend of the trysting-tree; such the little comedy which is played again for my amusement, as I sit in the very wicker-chair where Ellen Rackrack and young Arthur Cleave once sat and blushed, and flushed-a very different thing-and parted. She married afterwards one of the wealthiest and finest gentlemen of the colony; but in spite of the noble nature of her husband, and his kindly heart, the rumor spread that the lady was not happy; the union seemed an unfortunate one. The gossips of the country-side declared that the lady was the strangest person in the world; and this opinion was supported by a little incident which no one could dispute. On the night of her marriage, about an hour after the ceremony, the young lady was observed to glide out of the great sitting room. Whither she went no one observed, but everybody took it for granted that she had retired a moment to arrange some portion of her toilette, or for other trivial reason. A messenger was ere long dispatched to her apartment, to inform her that the first minuet of the evening was about to commence, and the presence of the bride was absolutely necessary. The servant returned and said that she was not in her chamber. This created apprehension, and when some additional time elapsed, without the appearance of the young lady, these fears were greatly deepened. The house was in a tumult-bridesmaids, and groomsmen, and servants, ran in all directions, and lights began to glimmer in the grounds. In the midst of the uproar the young lady made her appearance from the lawn, clad in her thin bridal dress and without wrapping, although the night was bitter cold. She entered, chill, silent, repelling every inquiry with curt commonplaces, or a stern and icy silence. She was deadly pale--her rosy lip had been bitten until it bled-her rich lace veil seemed to have passed through a thicket filled with thorns; it was so violently torn. The maiden vouchsafed no explanation of these circumstances. Her cold, absent looking eyes, which were red as if from recent weeping, proved that she scarcely listened to the interrogatories. Soon they ceased. The bridegroom hid his doubts and dissatisfaction beneath an elaborate and courtly smile. The evening passed without further incident; but the young lady never once relaxed her stony calmness-not for an instant did the colour revisit her cold, pale cheek. One circumstance was observed, however, by many persons, and furnished the topic of curious comment. The bride felt repeatedly at her girdle for her hand kerchief, which, by some accident, had disappeared. On the next morning the handkerchief was found, saturated with dew, on the wicker-seat beneath the trysting-tree. There were those who said that the moisture was not dew, but tears. But this was mere conjecture. Young Arthur Cleave was never seen at the hall after his parting with the young girl. The master element of his high-toned character was pride. When they met, the young man passed on quickly with a profound and courtly bow. They were never heard to address each other. It was ten years after the marriage, when Arthur Cleave fell fighting against the tyrannical Sir William Berkeley in Gloucester County-fighting by the side of the gallant Bacon for the liberties of the people of Virginia. After the encounter, his comrades searched for the dead body to give it honourable burial. Secured near the dead man's heart they found a lock of raven hair, and a letter in the hand-writing of a woman. The ball which pierced his breast had torn away the name. It ran as follows: "I am married, and miserable. I loved you, and shall love you always. I do not blame you, it was I who threw away my happiness-farewell.” The letter and the lock of hair were silently replaced upon the dead man's heart-the grave was dug-the body consigned to it-a salute of guns was fired above it in his honour. Thus slept the honest gentleman, happy and fortunate, dead in a noble cause. When the news reached the lady she only turned deadly pale; otherwise she remained outwardly calm. But the arrow had entered her heart; she never rallied from the blow. On her visits to the hall she spent half her time at the Trysting-tree, sobbing like a broken hearted thing. Soon it ended. A few years saw her fade away. She died with his name upon her lips. Such is the honest old legend. Here end to-day my idle sketches. The figures of romance disappear like a dream; I lay down my pen as they vanish. If the reader has been interested in their smiles or sighs, I am more than repaid. MICHAEL ANGELO AND RAPHAEL. Nature first struck out a Michael Angelo, and spared no effort to make him perfect after his kind. She then set herself to frame his opposite, and the result was Raphael. The first labour, as might be anticipated, was more bold, striking, and original, the last the most carefully elaborated, with fewer slips and flaws. Michael Angelo was roughly hewn in the opening days of creation, when huge vast blocks were boldly struck out from the rough quarries of chaos, and nature still in throes was giving violent birth to giants and monsters. Raphael came in those more gentle hours, when earth budded in flowers, and burst into song; love fostered him in childhood, and beauty caressed his youth. Michael Angelo, like the primal rocks, rose in the rugged bold defiance of mountain masses, and throughout life proudly spurning intercourse with humble dwellers in the valleys, shrouded himself in the solitary clouds, or sought companionship in the storm. Raphael, shunning solitude, sought the society of pupils, associate friends, and patron princes; the sympathy and love of a tender nature, not less than his genius, brought around him that close and finer fellowship his nature so much needed. Michael Angelo was..... the Aristotle of art, material and masculine. Raphael, its Plato, who discoursed on the immortality of the soul, and sought out its divine mysteries and symbols. Michael Angelo was in art the St. Peter, impetuous and bold, who denied Christ, yet held the keys of heaven. Raphael the St. John, who discoursed on the incarnate Word, and leant on the bosom of him whom he loved. The artist Michael was like the angel Michael, who subdued the dragon; Raphael was one of those gentle messengers who glided from heaven on a sunbeam with tidings of love and mercy.-Blackwood's Magazine. 351 A COCKNEY CATULLUS. Since the days of Catullus, poets have vainly essayed to compose nuptial songs, which would survive the occasion of their birth. His Epithalamium on the marriage of Manlius and Julia is a matchless master-piece of that kind of composition. It stands in the temple of Apollo, like the Venus Anadyomene of Apelles, "the personification of Female Grace, the wonder of art, the despair of artists." The nearest approximation to its excellence is, perhaps, to be found in some lines of the "Epithalamium of Jason and Creusa" in Seneca's tragedy of Medea; but considered altogether, the two poems are as different as were the prevailing characteristics of their authors. As for Geordie Buchanan's stately verses on the alliance of Francis the Second with Mary Queen of Scots, it hardly deserves the title of an epithalamium, being in fact little else than a string of swelling phrases and elevated sentiments, inspired rather by the goddess of wisdom than of love. Sir William Jones, who was an admirable translator and copyist but no true poet, has given us in his poem on the marriage of Lord Spencer, a passable version of the most select passages of Catullus; but fallen infinitely short of the untransferable spirit and beauty of the inimitable original. Since then it was believed the genius of lyric poesy had very prudently abandoned the arena of competition and left the bard of Sirmio in quiet enjoyment of his immortal bays. But, behold, another challenger comes to dispute the crown of the "doctus" Catullus. Who the daring adventurer is, remains to be disclosed; but from the evidence before us, we take him for some reckless "fillibuster," who has ruthlessly invaded the sacred precincts of Helicon, in defiance of the conventional restraints of civilized society. Peace to thy illustrious manes, O Catullus, for the days of thy triumph are numbered! An anonymous favourite of the tuneful Nine has snatched the victorious fillet from your brow, and the "Epithalamium of Julia and Manlius" now yields the palm to the "Carmen Nuptiale on the mar riage of FREDERICK WILLIAM AUGUSTUS CHARLES, heir apparent to the throne of Prussia, and MARIA LOUISA VICTORIA ADELAIDE, fairest of Princesses,' published by permission in the London Court Journal, on the 26th January, 1858." Irony aside, for aught we know the royal pair may have been ever so much flattered in having their nuptials celebrated by our volunteer minstrel; but had we been one of the parties to that august compact, the perpetrator of such ineffable nonsense concerning our hymeneal joys, would spend the rest of his ambitious days in the most dismal colliery in all England. The poem opens after this fashion: Passing over the very pardonable liberty of making "seventeen" take the place of "sixteen" in girlhood's vocabulary, and saying nothing of the unrelieved stupidity of the composition, what, in the name of Pegasus, is the meaning of the last two lines? Is it anything remarkable that the 66 Royal Maiden" should be " dwelling free?" or that she should be " dwelling free where England rules her subject sea?" What sea? The North? The Irish? Or is the term comprehensive of all old "Neptune's salt wash ?" "Fairest of Princesses!" don't know what amount of personal pulchritude usually falls to the share of feminine Royalty, having never had the opportunity of ocular inspection; but there is such a thing as beauty of person in the abstract, and we will venture to affirm that her Highness, MARIA LOUISA VICTORIA ADELAIDE will never, 66 like another Helen, fire another Troy." "Second Victoria! England's Rose, Pure as old Skiddaw's winter-snows, We To thee a people's fealty flows, Child of that happy Mother Whom our vast Empire doth obey ; Full many a Queen of regal sway The ancient earth has seen, and may; But never such another." Whether the "winter-snows of old Skiddaw" are particularly famed for their "purity," and if not, why that euphonious summit should have been selected from its fellows of the Cumbrian group for poetic immortality, are questions for the Dilettanti. What sort of an animal, pray, is a "queen of regal sway?" Does it differ at all from ordinary queens such as "the ancient earth has seen, and-may?" Imagine the delightful surprise of her unsuspecting Majesty to find her name wafted on the grateful incense of adulation to such "6 'high exaltation," and all her negative qualities, by a single touch of the magic talisman, converted into positive elements of incomparable greatness,-eclipsing the warlike glories of Semiramis, Zenobia, and Boadicea; outshining the splendour of Sheba's queen; more beautiful than Cleopatra, and throwing the proud historic celebrities of the golden ages of Elizabeth and Anne completely in the shade. "Tears from those loving eyes fell down She rules, beloved and queenly." "Those," in the first line, should be "her"-a very excusable grammatical solecism. For the rest, there is nothing worthy of special criticism, except to remark the sickening jejuneness of the lines. "Tears, too, in those bright eyes of thine, Princess! like orient gems may shine, For hill and wold and channel brine Thee from thy home must severFrom Windsor's towers of antique might, Balmoral's misty mountain-light, And th' ocean cinctured Isle of Wight Where fresh waves flash forever. "Sweet April tears! far, far away, Love drives them, bringing blushful May, Young Love, with joyous minstrel-lay Dear to the heart of maidens. And lo! the destined Prince is here, And bridal music, soft and clear, From town and palace, mount and mere, Prolongs in gentle cadence. "Come happy Prince! Low voices call Thee to our England's palace hall; About thy way the echoes fall, Of some enchanted idyl. Sweet as a lily-flushing bright, A ruddy rose in summer lightShe waits with timorous delight, The mystic morn of bridal." "O, fons lachrymarum," &c. Blest dispensation of the Divine economy, which makes some men laugh and others weep at precisely the same incidents! "Si credis utrique Res sunt humanæ flebile ludibrium." We spare the merciless scalpel on the delicate organizations of numbers one and two, and proceed to anatomize number three. "The echoes fall of some enchanted idyl,"-meaning of course the melting reverberations of our modern Orpheus erotic strains! How to make of a “lily flushing bright" a "ruddy rose," is a botanical problem, which has escaped the attention of Linnæus and Dr. Darwin. "The mystic morn of bridal” is a perfect love of a gem. There is a strange indefinable mystery, which comes over the stoutest hearts when about to launch upon the untried sea of matrimony. Besides, Milton tells us there are certain "rites mysterious" which lie concealed beneath the sacred Flammeum of Hymen. But, "Coelebs, quid agam !" We single gentlemen have no right to speculate upon such nice topics. The stanzas which follow, being the best of the rare collection, are given without comment—" dancing bells," "reeling belfries," and all! |